The One Day My Life Is Not A Movie

Cut!

That's me screaming that in my imagination.

There are two things I know for certain about being famous.

Everyone knows your name.

Nobody knows where you left your underwear.

The second one is more important than it sounds, especially when your life has been filmed for thirteen years and strangers on the internet believe they have enough information to write your biography, diagnose your personality, plan your wedding, and explain why you looked suspiciously unhappy while buying toothpaste.

I'm Jenna Russell.

Actress. Billionaire. Fashion icon. Professional overthinker.

And, according to the internet, the woman most likely to have a mental breakdown in designer heels.

I prefer to think of myself as a woman with excellent taste and an unfortunate relationship with cameras.

For thirteen years, my life has been a television show.

Not one of those reality shows where strangers live in a house, argue over breakfast, and pretend they don't know where the cameras are.

No. Mine is worse.

My entire life is entertainment.

My career. My relationships. My family. My arguments. My vacations. My mistakes.

Especially my mistakes.

If I sneeze in public, somebody uploads it in 4K with dramatic music and a caption that reads, Jenna Russell is finally losing it.

If I trip on a red carpet, three people make memes before I reach the ground.

And if I cry?

Well, congratulations to the internet. That's tomorrow's trending topic.

Millions of people have watched me grow up. They've watched me succeed, fail, fall in love, get my heart broken, and make decisions that would have benefited from a second opinion.

Sometimes, I wonder whether I'm actually living my life or simply providing excellent television content.

Today, for example, I am turning forty.

Forty.

The number sounds fake.

It sounds like the age of a woman who owns six houses, drinks expensive wine, understands the stock market, and has a five-year plan for everything.

I own four houses.

I hate wine.

And my five-year plan currently consists of convincing everyone to leave me alone long enough to eat a slice of birthday cake.

Apparently, this makes me relatable.

At least, that's what my publicist says.

"Jenna, stop touching your face."

I looked up from my phone.

My makeup artist, whose name was Vanessa and whose patience had been tested by me for so many years that she deserved a national award, stood behind my chair with a makeup brush in one hand.

"I wasn't touching my face."

"You were."

"I was thinking."

"With your fingers?"

"Yes. It's a complicated technique."

Vanessa stared at me through the mirror.

I smiled sweetly.

She sighed and returned to my makeup.

"One day," she muttered, "I'm going to retire and move to a country where nobody knows who you are."

"Take me with you."

"Absolutely not."

"You're breaking my heart on my birthday."

"Your heart will survive. Hold still."

I held still for approximately four seconds.

Then I looked at myself in the mirror.

My dress was black, fitted, elegant, and expensive enough to make my accountant develop a headache. My hair fell in glossy waves over my shoulders, and my makeup was flawless.

I looked like the kind of woman who knew exactly what she was doing.

That was the beauty of professional makeup.

It could make you look emotionally stable even when you were one inconvenient question away from throwing a shoe at somebody.

A tiny red light blinked above the mirror.

The camera was on.

Of course it was.

There were cameras in the house, cameras backstage, cameras at events, cameras in my office, and cameras following me whenever I travelled.

The documentary crew had been part of my life for thirteen years. They had recorded birthdays, award ceremonies, career milestones, family dinners, and more awkward silences than any human being should have to endure.

They had even filmed me trying to assemble a bookshelf once.

That footage had somehow received more views than my first award acceptance speech.

I still considered suing the internet.

I leaned toward the camera.

"Whoever is watching this, I want it officially recorded that I did not approve the bookshelf episode."

From the sofa behind me, Chloe Sutherland made a strangled noise.

"Jenna!"

"What?"

"Stop giving the editors material."

"They have thirteen years of material. I'm practically doing charity work."

Chloe dropped her head into her hands.

As my personal assistant, business adviser, and closest friend, she had mastered the art of looking exhausted without actually leaving the room. She was also the only person I knew who could threaten to resign while simultaneously reminding me to take my vitamins.

"Your birthday party starts in less than an hour," she said.

"The press is already outside. Your parents have arrived. Your guest list is confirmed, your speech is ready, and the production team wants you downstairs in five minutes."

I stared at her.

"Lovely."

"And before you ask, no, you cannot skip the after-party."

"I wasn't going to ask that."

"You were thinking it."

"You're becoming alarmingly good at reading my mind."

"I've worked with you for over fifteen years. Your mind is not a difficult place to visit."

I gasped.

Vanessa laughed so hard that her makeup brush slipped.

"Careful!" I protested. "This face is insured."

"Your face is not insured," Chloe said.

"Then someone has been lying to me."

"Someone is about to be fired if you ruin your lipstick."

I pressed my lips together.

For a moment, the room settled into the familiar rhythm of my life: Vanessa adjusting my makeup, Chloe checking her phone, a production assistant speaking quietly into a headset, and a camera capturing every second.

This was normal.

It had been normal for so long that I had forgotten what the alternative felt like

Then I noticed the camera's little red light again.

And something inside me went quiet.

Not dramatically. No tears. No sudden revelation accompanied by piano music.

Just a small, inconvenient thought.

What would happen if I had one day nobody could watch?

One day without strangers discussing my expressions as though I were a painting in a museum.

One day without a producer asking me to repeat a sentence because the camera had missed my reaction.

One day when I could be happy without proving it, sad without explaining it, and silent without someone wondering whether I was hiding a scandal.

I wanted one ordinary day.

The irony was almost funny.

I was Jenna Russell. I could buy an island, book a private jet, or build a house in the middle of nowhere.

Yet somehow, privacy was the one thing money had never managed to purchase for me.

I asked for this anyway

"Jenna?"

I blinked.

Chloe was watching me.

"You okay?"

"Perfect."

She narrowed her eyes.

"That was suspiciously quick."

"I'm forty. I'm allowed to have thoughts."

"Not today. Today, you have a schedule."

I laughed, and the moment passed.

Or at least, I pretended it had.

"How many people are watching tonight?" I asked.

Chloe checked her phone.

"Worldwide? The production team expects over a hundred million viewers across the live broadcast and streaming platforms."

I slowly turned toward her.

"That's too many people."

"You've had more."

"Yes, but I was younger and less aware of my mortality."

"You're not dying, Jenna. You're turning forty."

"Same thing, according to my knees."

Vane gave me a look.

"You don't have bad knees."

"I don't have bad knees yet. That's the terrifying part."

Chloe stood and straightened the sleeve of my dress.

"Listen to me. Tonight is important. Thirteen years of the documentary, your fortieth birthday, all your friends and family in one place. The world gets to celebrate you."

"The world gets to watch me eat."

"The world gets to watch you give a beautiful speech."

"I haven't written a speech."

Chloe froze.

I smiled.

"Surprise."

"Jenna Russell."

"Chloe Sutherland."

"Tell me you're joking."

"I'm an actress. You'll have to be more specific."

She stared at me for a long, silent moment.

Then she picked up her phone.

"Fine. I'll write you something."

"You're an angel."

"I'm adding a paragraph about how much you love your assistant."

"I love my assistant."

"With specific examples."

"I'll name you in my will."

"You don't have a will."

I paused.

"That's another thing I should probably deal with."

"After the speech!"

A knock sounded at the door.

A production assistant poked her head inside. "We're ready for you, Jenna."

The room changed instantly.

Vanessa stepped back to admire her work. Chloe collected my phone and handed me a small clutch. Somewhere beyond the door, music rose over the hum of a crowd.

I stood.

For one second, I allowed myself to look at the woman in the mirror.

Forty years old.

A successful career. More money than I could reasonably spend. A family I loved. Friends who knew the difference between my public smile and my real one.

And a life so carefully documented that I sometimes struggled to tell the difference between a memory and a scene the editors had shown me twenty times.

I looked directly at the camera.

"Okay," I whispered. "Let's give them a show."

The red light blinked.

I wondered, briefly, whether it would ever stop.

Then the door swung open.

Music flooded the hallway. Applause thundered from downstairs. Someone shouted my name, followed by a dozen more voices, until the sound became a single, enormous roar.

I lifted my chin and stepped forward.

The woman who emerged was Jenna Russell: actress, billionaire, birthday girl, and the person millions of people believed they knew.

I smiled for the cameras.

I waved at the crowds.

I walked toward my own celebration as though I hadn't spent the last ten minutes wishing I could disappear.

But it was my birthday. I had a party to attend, a speech to survive, and a cake waiting somewhere downstairs.

Whatever the problem was, it could wait until tomorrow.

After all, what could possibly happen on a day when a hundred million people were watching?

I was about to find out.

And by the time the day was over, I would wish that every single camera had been turned of.

The first rule of attending my birthday party is simple.

Never arrive before me.

The second rule is even simpler.

Never wear the same dress as me.

Unfortunately, someone had already broken both rules, and I hadn't even made it through the entrance.

"Jenna!"

The crowd erupted. Flashbulbs exploded from every direction, reporters shouted over one another, and someone behind the barricade screamed my name like they'd just witnessed a miracle.

I smiled and waved.

Celebrity life. Very normal. Very peaceful.

A reporter thrust a microphone toward me.

"Jenna! How does it feel to be forty?"

I stopped and looked at her.

"That's a very aggressive way to ask someone's age."

She laughed. "So how does it feel?"

"Like thirty-nine with better lighting."

The crowd laughed.

Another reporter called out, "What's your secret to looking this good at forty?"

I pointed toward Lily, my stylist and my makeup artist, Vanessa.

"Money."

Lily's mouth fell open.

"I'm joking!" I added. "Mostly skincare, water, sleep, and minding my business. Emphasis on minding my business."

A voice behind the barricade shouted, "You don't mind your business!"

I stopped.

"Who said that?"

Silence.

"Come out. Let's discuss this."

Nobody volunteered.

Cowards.

I was about to continue when a woman in an elegant gown stepped into my path. She was beautiful, confident, and wearing a dress so similar to mine that I briefly wondered whether I had a twin.

We looked at each other's dresses.

"Oh, no," I whispered.

She laughed. "When I saw your photos, I knew we'd look like twins!"

"Twins? Darling, this is a birthday party, not a fashion emergency."

We laughed and posed for pictures together. It was a lovely moment, really.

I hated every second of it.

Now I was regretting not wearing my custom dress. Nothing says happy birthday like accidentally coordinating with a stranger in front of hundreds of cameras.

By the time I reached the ballroom, my cheeks hurt from smiling.

The room was spectacular. Flowers covered the tables, crystal chandeliers glittered overhead, and a giant screen displayed photographs from different stages of my life.

I pointed at one.

"Who approved that?"

Chloe appeared beside me. "Approved what?"

"That outfit. Those eyebrows. That hair. I look like I was styled during a power outage."

"You were twenty-seven."

"Which means mirrors already existed."

She burst out laughing.

"You were so proud of that look."

"Please don't tell me that. I have enough problems."

"You once told a reporter it represented your personal evolution."

I closed my eyes.

"I'd like to evolve away from this conversation."

"Too late. It's on video."

I looked up at the camera.

"To whoever edits this documentary, I am begging you to show mercy."

The little red light blinked.

I took that as a no.

Then my mother arrived.

Elena Russell had a special talent for making me feel as though I'd been caught doing something wrong, even when I was simply standing there.

She hugged me, stepped back, and examined my dress.

I knew something was going to come out of her mouth.

"Couldn't you wear something less revealing?"

"Mum, I'm forty."

"Exactly. You should know better."

"Happy birthday to me."

She laughed and kissed my cheek. "I love you."

"I love you too."

"And you're wearing too much makeup."

I turned to Chloe. "Please tell me somebody has adopted me."

Chloe laughed.

My mother linked her arm through mine.

"Have you eaten?"

"I had a strawberry."

"A strawberry?"

"It was a very large strawberry."

She gave me a look.

"Fine. I'll eat something."

"Good."

For all the noise around us, walking beside her felt comforting. She had known me before the fame, before the headlines, before strangers began treating my life like a public property.

She still saw the girl who had once cried because she wasn't allowed to wear lipstick to school.

It was sweet.

It was also inconvenient whenever I wanted to appear mysterious and sophisticated.

Across the room, my father spotted me and raised his glass.

I blew him a kiss.

He mouthed, Behave yourself.

I mouthed back, No promises.

He shook his head, smiling.

Family. The only people who could embarrass me without needing internet access.

Soon, the host stepped onto the stage.

"Good evening, everyone! Tonight, we celebrate thirteen incredible years and remarkable journey. of My Life Is a Movie: A Jenna Russell Documentary!"

The audience cheered.

I leaned toward Chloe.

"If he says 'remarkable journey' one more time, I'm leaving. He always says that every year."

"You can't leave your own birthday party."

"Watch me."

The host gestured toward the giant screen.

"And now, let's look back at some of Jenna's most unforgettable moments!"

I slowly turned toward Chloe.

"How bad is it?"

"Very."

The screen lit up.

Twenty-seven-year-old me appeared in an interview chair, wearing an outfit that should have come with a public apology.

The ballroom erupted in laughter.

I covered my face.

"Oh, absolutely not!"

On the screen, the interviewer asked, "Where do you see yourself in ten years?"

My younger self smiled confidently.

"Married with three children."

The audience roared.

I lowered my hands.

"That woman was a liar!"

Someone shouted, "Jenna, what happened?

"She made promises without consulting me!"

The laughter continued until the next clip appeared.

Young Jenna leaned toward the camera.

"I want a quiet life. I'd rather have happiness and privacy than spend my whole life being watched. I just want to be known for my talent. That's all. I want my life to be strictly professional."

This time, I didn't laugh.

I watched my younger self smile, completely unaware that strangers would one day analyze my expressions, discuss my relationships, and turn my most ordinary moments into headlines.

A quiet life.

I'd wanted it so easily.

As though privacy were something I could simply choose.

The host returned to the stage.

"Jenna, if you could give your younger self one piece of advice, what would it be?"

I picked up the microphone.

"Invest in better eyebrows."

The room exploded with laughter.

"And never trust a stylist who tells you orange and purple are the new black."

Lily shouted from somewhere behind me, "I HEARD THAT!"

I laughed with everyone else.

For a little while, I forgot about the cameras.

Then the birthday cake arrived.

It was enormous, with forty candles blazing across the top.

I stared at it.

"Who ordered this?"

Chloe looked innocent. "You approved it."

"I approved a cake, not a small architectural project."

The room darkened as everyone began singing.

I looked around at the flowers, the chandeliers, the smiling faces, and the cameras recording my every reaction.

Then I closed my eyes.

I wished for freedom.

Not another award. Not another house. Not another successful film.

Just one day that belonged to me.

One day when I could walk outside without a camera following me, make a mistake without millions of people discussing it, and exist without having to turn every moment into entertainment.

I blew out the candles.

The room erupted in applause.

Someone shouted that I looked thirty.

That person deserved a bonus.

Chloe hugged me.

"Happy birthday, Jenna."

"Thank you, lovie"

Not so long, my mother pulled me into another photograph.

The moment passed, swallowed by music and the endless parade of people wanting my attention.

But something else was missing.

Anne.

My best friend had been beside me through the worst auditions, the most humiliating headlines, and the moments when fame had made me question my own sanity. She was the one person who could tell me the truth without worrying about whether I'd like it.

Yet she hadn't arrived.

"Chloe, have you seen Anne today?"

She shook her head.

"Call her, please."

Chloe dialed. No answer.

I tried myself. Nothing.

Concern quickly turned into irritation. Anne was many things, but unreliable wasn't one of them.

"Maybe she's on her way," Chloe suggested.

"She would've called."

My mother and father asked about her too. Even Eva, Anne's younger sister, couldn't tell us where she was.

What bothered me most was that nobody else seemed to notice her absence. The guests had come for me. The cameras were pointed at me. The world was celebrating Jenna Russell, and apparently everyone else was just part of the scenery.

I hated that.

Anne deserved to be missed.

By 2 o'clock in the afternoon, the party was in full swing. My father was dancing with my mother, and Chloe was laughing at his attempts to keep up with the music.

"Your father's dancing like he's negotiating a business deal," she said.

"He's probably trying to acquire the dance floor."

I laughed, but my eyes kept drifting toward the entrance.

Every time the doors opened, I looked up.

Every time, it was someone else.

I had spent the evening smiling, posing, and pretending that being watched was the most natural thing in the world.

But as another photographer called my name, I realized how tired I was.

I wanted to be Jenna without being a headline. A daughter without being a documentary subject. A friend without having to wonder whether the person who knew me best was missing for a reason.

I wanted my life back.

And for the first time that evening, I stopped smiling for the cameras.

I didn't know where Anne was.

And I didn't know why the day suddenly felt different from every other day of my life.

I only knew that I wanted this birthday to end.

I just didn't know how soon I'd get my wish.

The party became louder after the birthday tribute.

Which was impressive, considering I had already reached the point where I could feel the music vibrating through my skeleton.

People were dancing. Celebrities were drinking. Someone was taking photographs beside my birthday cake, and my face was still appearing on a giant screen behind us.

Apparently, I had become my own birthday decoration.

I leaned toward Chloe.

"I need air."

She looked at me. "Air?"

"Yes."

"You have air."

I inhaled dramatically.

She stared at me.

"That is oxygen, Jenna."

"Exactly. I need more of it."

She rolled her eyes.

I stood.

"Where are you going?"

"Outside."

"Why?"

"To walk."

She looked genuinely confused. "Walk?"

"Yes, Chloe. One foot in front of the other. Everyone does that."

"Jenna, there are hundreds of people outside."

"Perfect."

"For what?"

"For me to walk."

She stared at me for several seconds before sighing.

"You're going to do whatever you want anyway."

"Now you're learning. It's not as if I'm going to escape being filmed."

I slipped away from the table.

Immediately, three cameras turned toward me.

Of course.

Five seconds later, I heard the familiar buzzing overhead.

I looked up.

A drone.

Then another.

Then a third.

"I expected that."

One of the production crew members gave me a thumbs-up.

I gave him a thumbs-down.

He laughed.

Apparently, even my complaints were entertainment.

I stepped outside, and the cool night air brushed against my face. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply.

Finally.

Peace.

Footsteps sounded behind me.

I opened my eyes.

My security team had followed.

Of course they had.

"Guys."

They stopped.

"I'm going for a walk."

"We know, ma'am."

"You don't have to follow me."

"We have to."

"Why?"

"Because you're Jenna Russell."

I stared at Daniel Brooks,My chief of security.

"That sounds like a personal problem."

He smiled. "Unfortunately."

I started walking.

The cameras followed. The drones followed. My bodyguards followed. Even a few fans had noticed me leaving and started trailing behind at a respectful distance.

I glanced over my shoulder.

"Am I walking or leading a parade?"

Nobody answered.

A man from the crowd called out, "Jenna! Where are you going?"

I turned without thinking.

"To find love!"

Everyone laughed.

"Maybe a restaurant!" I added.

More laughter.

"Maybe a disco party!"

Someone screamed excitedly.

I pointed at them. "Depends on where my legs take me!"

The crowd cheered.

I laughed too.

Honestly, I wasn't entirely joking.

I had spent years in relationships that eventually became public entertainment. Every breakup became a headline. Every dinner with a man became a possible engagement announcement. If I so much as smiled at a waiter, somebody somewhere would probably start planning our wedding.

No one wanted to be with someone who get's filmed every single day of her life.

It was tiring.

But I had to find a way to fill the promise I made when I was 27.

I need to get married as soon as possible and have those three kids of mine.

Today, I wanted to do something spontaneous.

Something stupid.

Something normal.

Maybe I'd walk into a restaurant. Maybe I'd find a bar. Maybe I'd dance until my feet filed a formal complaint.

At least my feet weren't under contract.

We walked farther from the hotel, and the noise of the party gradually faded behind us.

One of my bodyguards approached.

"Ma'am, would you like us to bring one of your cars around?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

"Where exactly are you going?"

"Nowhere."

He frowned.

"Nowhere?"

"Exactly."

He looked at me as though I had finally lost my mind.

"I'll take a car when I come back," I assured him.

He glanced around at the other five bodyguards including Daniel, three drones, two camera operators, and the small crowd following behind us.

"You're walking alone?" Daniel asks.

I followed his gaze.

"Do I look alone?"

He smiled. "Fair point. But that's why you need us the most."

For the first time that evening, I felt free.

Well, as free as a woman could feel while being followed by an entire television production.

Then I turned onto a quieter street.

And everything changed.

A white van swerved toward the pavement and stopped so abruptly that I barely had time to step back.

The side door flew open.

Three masked men jumped out.

"What the...."

One grabbed my arm.

I screamed.

Another seized me around the waist.

My bodyguards reacted immediately, shouting and rushing toward us. For one brief second, I thought they would have me free before I could even finish screaming.

Then came the gunshots.

The world seemed to stop.

I saw my security team fall.

"No!"

Someone dragged me toward the van.

I kicked. I scratched. I fought with the determination of a woman who had spent a fortune on a dress and refused to let criminals ruin it.

"LET ME GO!"

A hand covered my mouth.

I bit it.

Hard.

The man cursed.

I almost felt proud.

Then another person grabbed me from behind and hauled me into the van.

The door slammed.

Darkness swallowed me.

My heart hammered against my ribs. I could hear shouting outside, followed by more movement and another burst of gunfire.

Then came a strange buzzing sound.

The drones.

Someone climbed onto the roof of the van.

A loud crack sounded overhead.

The buzzing stopped.

Another crack.

Another drone went silent.

I stared upward.

"Are you kidding me?"

Nobody answered.

The van accelerated so violently that I slammed against its side. Someone twisted my arms behind me and tied my wrists. Another person pressed tape over my mouth before pulling a hood over my head.

I struggled against them, but a sharp voice stopped me.

"Keep still."

I did not keep still.

I kicked at whoever was closest.

"Hold her properly!" someone snapped.

Oh, now they were criticizing my performance?

Wonderful.

I had been kidnapped for less than five minutes, and already I was dealing with unprofessional people.

I tried to breathe slowly.

Think, Jenna. Think.

This could be a prank.

A television stunt.

Some ridiculous surprise production.

Maybe my producers had finally lost their minds and decided that kidnapping their lead actress would make excellent birthday content.

Perhaps someone would pull off the hood in ten minutes and shout, Surprise!

I sincerely hoped so.

Because if this was an actual kidnapping, I had made several terrible decisions today.

Including leaving my phone behind.

And announcing to an entire crowd that I was going out to find love.

Apparently, love had found me first.

Unfortunately, it was a masked man with a gun.

I had no idea how long we travelled.

The van eventually slowed. I heard the metallic groan of a garage door opening, followed by the sound of the vehicle driving over a smooth concrete floor.

Then we stopped.

Hands grabbed me.

I was dragged outside, still blindfolded, with my wrists tied and tape covering my mouth.

Vehicles moved around us. Doors opened and slammed. Shoes scraped against the floor.

Then a man spoke.

"Change everything."

Another voice answered. "The plates?"

"Already done."

"The cameras?"

"Cleared."

My entire body went still.

Oh.

This was not looking like a birthday surprise anymore.

Someone removed the hood.

I blinked against the harsh overhead lights.

We were underground in a parking garage. My kidnappers still wore masks, and one of them was holding a laptop. Another was removing the van's license plate. A third stood beside a second vehicle.

And one figure, seated inside that vehicle, looked suspiciously like a woman.

I stared at the figure.

Then at the van.

Then back at the figure.

This was officially the strangest day of my life.

And considering my life had been televised for thirteen years, that was saying something.

A man approached me.

I stared at him.

He stared back.

Neither of us spoke.

Then I remembered something.

There should have been footage.

Hundreds of cameras. Drones. Street cameras. Hotel security cameras. Traffic cameras.

My entire life had been recorded from more angles than a presidential election.

Someone should have seen what happened.

But the man with the laptop closed it and spoke into his earpiece.

"Everything along the route has been cleared."

I blinked.

My mouth was still taped shut.

I raised one eyebrow.

He didn't react.

I raised the other.

Still nothing.

Fine. Apparently, my eyebrows were no longer effective communication tools.

They left me standing there for what felt like an eternity.

Ten minutes passed.

Then fifteen.

Then twenty.

Nobody explained anything. Nobody asked me for money. Nobody threatened to kill me. Nobody even had the decency to tell me whether I was supposed to be frightened.

I was beginning to suspect that my kidnappers had attended the same customer-service training as certain government offices.

Eventually, another car arrived.

They transferred me into it.

New vehicle.

New plates.

New route.

New everything.

As we drove away from the underground garage, I finally accepted the truth.

I had been kidnapped.

Actually kidnapped.

Not acting. Not filming. Not rehearsing. Not participating in some ridiculous birthday challenge.

Kidnapped.

I stared through the window, trying to make sense of what had happened.

What was this about?

I looked at the masked man sitting opposite me.

He stared back.

I narrowed my eyes.

He looked away.

Good. At least someone was uncomfortable.

I leaned my head against the seat and tried thinking of what could possibly be happening.

Anne's absence.

The sudden darkness.

My security team falling.

The drones being destroyed.

The cameras being cleared.

Who were these people?

What did they want from me?

And why did they seem so determined to make sure nobody knew where I had gone?

My stomach twisted.

For thirteen years, I had complained about cameras following me everywhere.

Now I would have given anything for one to appear.

I wanted someone to see me.

Someone to know I was missing.

Someone to notice that the woman whose face had been plastered across millions of screens that everyday had suddenly disappeared.

But outside, the world was still celebrating my birthday. People were probably posting photographs of me, replaying my jokes, and arguing about which designer had made my dress.

While news will just gradually start spreading about what had happened at that quiet street.

But I know my production team wouldn't want the news out so early.

They might have had no idea yet that I was tied up in a stranger's car.

I closed my eyes.

This morning, I had stood in front of my mirror and promised myself that today would be different.

I had wanted adventure.

I had wanted spontaneity.

I had wanted to escape the cameras.

Well, congratulations, Jenna.

You escaped the cameras.

And now you were trapped in a car with people who had erased every trace of your disappearance.

Fantastic.

I tried to sigh, but the tape over my mouth turned it into a pathetic little sound.

"Mmph."

Nobody answered.

I stared at the ceiling.

Of all the ways I could have spent my fortieth birthday, I really should have gone with the cake.

But beneath the jokes, a question kept repeating itself.

What happens when nobody is watching?

For the first time in my life, I couldn't turn to a camera and trust that someone would eventually see what had happened to me.

I didn't know where I was going.

I didn't know who had taken me.

I didn't know whether Anne was safe too now that I had been kidnapped since I remember I haven't seen her today neither has her phone went through.

And I had no idea whether I would ever see my family again.

I only knew that, somewhere beyond those tinted windows, my old life was continuing without me.

Now I don't know what next is waiting for me.

Before the world began watching me, I had spent years wishing someone would notice me.

Now, with no camera in sight and my future in the hands of strangers, I found myself wishing I could go back to the day when nobody knew my name.

Back to the beginning.

Back to the girl who had nothing but a dream, a hairbrush, and an imagination far bigger than her world.

Because if you want to understand how Jenna Russell became the woman everyone thought they knew, you have to meet the girl she used to be.

And if you want to understand why someone must have went to such lengths to make me disappear, you might need to discover what happened before the cameras ever found me.

My story began long before my kidnapping.

It began the day I decided I was going to be an actress.

But the most disturbing thing right now is that I've been kidnapped and I don't even know why but strangely, I loved it.

At least I was being away from the cameras for the first time in thirteen years.